


Casual Connection of Random Events

by LapsedPacifist



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Assassination Plot(s), Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Vimes does Not Like Being A Duke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2019-11-15 01:58:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18064397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LapsedPacifist/pseuds/LapsedPacifist
Summary: There was a reason the Assassins have taken both the Patrician and Commander Vimes off the register. Not only would their death probably destroy the entire playing field that was the city, but their reaction to the death of the other was completely unpredictable and therefore dangerous.So if one was in fact contemplating a revolution, taking them both out was an important part of any such consideration.Engineering a situation in which they took each other out was most preferable.





	1. Chapter 1

Coincidences, Vetinari firmly believed, were merely the excuse Life and Destiny gave when they could not be brought to come up with something that actually made some logical sense.

To say that neither particularly liked him was frankly irrelevant and _completely_ coincidental.

So it was only right that the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork was finally brought down by coincidences.

* * *

“I have enough paperwork on my desk to keep the big fireplace alight for the next month, deadlines that have acquired deadly weapons and an anniversary lunch to go to, so what the hell do you mean there’s no coffee?”

An unknown lance-constable squirmed but dared not look away from Vimes’ gaze and just managed to get out a very strangled: “Sorry, sir!”

The oversized armour and short hair made it impossible to determine the gender, and he was drawing a complete blank on the face. “Right, right. It’s gone? All of it? Even the huge sack we keep in the store room? The one that’s at least five kilos?”

“All of it, I’ve checked!”

The lance-constable looked ready to faint or bolt so he turned away in search of someone else to blame, but a silent emergency signal had apparently gone off that everyone besides him had somehow received as the entire office was completely deserted.

He sighed. His staff was even better at smelling danger than rats, and very good at running when needed.

But five kilos? What could’ve they done with it? What would they’ve needed all that stuff for?

He sighed again and lit a cigar. No point of trying to hunt anybody down now, it wouldn’t be edible anymore for certain. Anything that disappeared from the mess hall for something else than simply being taken into an office to be consumed immediately, quite quickly started to exist outside not only the range of edibility but the range of inedibility as well, passing into some underevolved dimensions, from which sandwich-like things emerged and lodged themselves in the backs of unsuspecting lockers.

Vimes shuddered just thinking about it.

He decided to maybe go out and get himself a coffee and then swing by the Palace. It was almost time, anyhow, and his lordship surely wouldn’t mind if he just took something small to drink with him, would he now.

* * *

“Are you completely sure this is advisable, my lord?” asked him Drumknott, politely but with concern, and even sincere at that. That was definitely the most surprising part here.

“But of course, Drumknott. You aren’t questioning my judgement?”

That particular question, asked in that in that particular tone of voice and with that particular raise of the eyebrow might have frightened anyone that didn’t know Lord Vetinari very well. And besides Drumknott, there weren’t many of those.

“Sir, you can barely stand,” he calmly said. He was supervising the administration of medicine, as instructed.

“So I shall only sit,” Vetinari calmly replied and drained the cup, barely grimacing at the horrible taste. “I must congratulate you, Drumknott. I believe it is entirely because of you that we have managed to keep this from Mr de Worde and consequently, the city as a whole. But if we wish to continue this ruse, I must be able to speak with Commander Vimes.”

Drumknott still didn’t look too pleased.

“And while I am entertaining the Duke, you can finally stop guarding me for five minutes and alert my clerks about that investigation we talked about.”

Even spoken very softly and interrupted by occasional coughs, there was no arguing with the authority of that order.

“Yes, sir,” murmured Drumknott. There was silence for a couple of moments where nobody moved and then he politely coughed: “Can I perhaps offer you my aid in getting out of bed, sir?”

The glare didn’t kill him, but it was a very near thing.

* * *

The fact that Vimes was in a bad mood because of Vetinari was unsurprising. He rarely wasn’t, but this time it was _special._ A prisoner was missing from his cells and while Vetinari hadn’t actually admitted to being the reason for his mysterious disappearance, he had calmly raised an eyebrow and commented on the apparently very brittle doors, which was the same as a signed confession.

Vimes took another sip while his feet carried him to the Palace and his head was deep in thought. There was no way they were getting that prisoner back. Once Vetinari got his fingers on them, they were gone and never to be seen again.

Except if they became governor officials overnight. He still hadn’t forgiven Vetinari for that one and now only hated colour gold with even more fervour.

That bastard truly went out of his way to somehow make Vimes’ life worse, apparently. And then he even pretended he had no idea what Vimes was complaining about!

Did the bastard really think throwing fancy titles was going to make Vimes forget about every terrible thing he had done? Never!

He gulped down the remained of the awful coffee with a very dubious aftertaste that would have anyone not from Ankh-Morpork already puking their guts out, forgetting all about his plan to annoy Vetinari with loudly slurping it in his office and perhaps even spilling a drop on the floor. He was almost shaking at this point, a sick feeling in his stomach and a headache making it unable to think very clearly.

The guards at the Palace went by unnoticed as he loudly stalked his way to the waiting room and threw himself into one of the chairs in front of the doors, preemptively glaring at the clock.

The room was empty and he thought he could hear voices coming from the Oblong Office. Of course, why did he even bother to be on time? The bastard always kept him waiting, no matter when he actually arrived.

He took out his truncheon and started throwing it up and down in his hand, surreptitiously searching for any evidence of a small, more or less fist-shaped hole in the wall.

There was none, naturally.

The doors opened after four minutes. Drumknott, staring at him disapprovingly, stepped out and closed the doors behind him.

“His lordship will see you now,” he announced. Then, not even waiting to see if Vimes was going to obey, he left the room.

Vimes more punched than pushed the doors open. Nothing unexpected awaited him, Vetinari calmly sitting his desk and signing his papers and Mr Fusspot sleeping in his cushion.

“Ah, Vimes,” Vetinari said.

Vimes wasn’t in the mood for it. The pounding in his head only intensified when he saw Vetinari, and he really _really_ needed something to punch right now. “As always, of course. Now, can you get to the point and not keep me here too long? It’s my anniversary today and the last thing I want is to spend it anywhere near you, _sir.”_

Vetinari was unperturbed. “But of course. I only wished to enquire whether your current investigation was making any progress.”

“Like you don’t know,” growled Vimes. A small part of his mind was yelling at the other parts of his mind that this was _not right,_ but it was easily pushed aside and ignored. He was too angry to stop now. “You know everything, and you know that I know that, so why the hell are you still playing these mind games? You don’t need me here to report to you, your dark clerks tell you everything you need, and if you _do_ need to tell me something, then you summon me, _like a dog._ So cut the crap, for once, and make me not want to strangle you for a moment.”

A heartbeat of what had to be one of the most tense moments in the Oblong Office since Vetinari and that was saying something, then: _“Sir.”_

Vetinari leaned forward: “Commander, are you alright? You appear unduly distressed. If talking to me is presenting such a challenge to you, then you might wish to excuse yourself.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

Vimes was staring over his shoulder. Everything seemed much louder, suddenly. “No sir, I very much love being verbally abused and humiliated. These days I often wonder why exactly I bothered to save your life so many times. Every conscientious citizen would’ve left you for dead, which would greatly improve things, _sir.”_

It was a clear mockery of a title by now and that was why Vimes persisted with its usage.

“I see that you're not the least bit grateful to me for raising you out of the gutter,” Vetinari muttered, still staying seated.

If Vimes hadn’t been so focused on _not_ punching him in his stupid face, he might’ve noticed the tightly squeezed, almost white knuckles and the low whining coming from Mr Fusspot, but he didn’t.

“If you ever imply anything like this ever again, I will not be responsible for my actions, sir.”

There was some more silence, during which Vetinari was apparently evaluating his seriousness before finally unclenching his fists and laid them down on the desk. “I am not certain what brought this on, Commander,” he slowly said, his tone perfectly composed and _cold,_ “but I would appreciate it if you desisted with your distasteful behaviour. We can reconvene tomorrow, or, barring an emergency, even next week.”

“What, I ain’t _ducal_ enough for you?” sneered Vimes. “To hell with that! You’ve been playing games with me since day one, with _everyone!_ Frankly, I think it’s time that someone told you off, and it might as well be me. Human lives aren’t just Thud! pieces that you can push around like you please and sacrifice when convenient.”

Vetinari remained silent, but his stare said enough.

Vimes was too angry to think about anything but the next insult and even that was getting hard now. “You’re everything wrong with assassins, psychopaths and aristocrats in one smug, ugly package.”

“That’s enough, Commander. This meeting has _ended.”_

Mr Fusspot’s whining got louder as Vimes stalked to the desk and with a loud noise laid his hands on it. “I won’t let you push me around like that anymore. No more freeing my prisoners because you think they might be _useful_ , no more playing games with us and-”

“You should leave now, Commander, for your own good.”

“- and no more vague threats!” Vimes screamed.

Vetinari was still seated, which was what infuriated him the most. The man didn’t even have the decency to face him like an equal. Because he didn’t see Vimes as an equal, a pretty large part of his brain said. Vetinari didn’t see _anyone_ as his equal. He was too smart for that, wasn’t he.

“What, not even gonna bother standing up?”

“To be honest, Sir Samuel, I don’t see the point.”

Later on, he barely remembered anything. Later on he had no clue whether it was the little half smile half smirk on Vetinari’s face, his cold stare or even the words themselves that set him off. Later on, the flashes of the following still horrified him.

He punched Vetinari right in the face with his fist. That was not the surprising part.

* * *

The surprising part was that Vimes actually hit him. Vetinari was nonplussed for only a moment and then, acutely aware of his vast disadvantage, tried to bring his cane up to deflect the next blow. But his hands were trembling, his head pounding and so the next punch knocked the cane away as well as hit him in the head again, knocking him and the chair to the floor.

Silently he was thankful for the two hits as the screaming pain in his head made it possible to ignore all other areas of his body that were fighting to sent the worst possible signals to his brain.

Vimes vaulted over the table but he managed to roll away just in time, knowing fully well his legs could not be called upon to support the weight of his body. The kick caught him in the stomach and he bit down on the whimper.

To say that this was unexpected was an understatement. Vetinari entertained the notion of an impostor for a moment and then dismissed it as kicks rained on his prone body. The fact was that as sick as he was, he could not do a damn thing to defend himself, and he had sent Drumknott away. An impostor or not, he was in trouble.

The kicking stopped and he felt hands on his throat. There was a dagger up his sleeve and he fumbled for it while Vimes dragged him up and slammed him against the wall. He had only one shot here, if he didn’t incapacitate Vimes at once, he probably wasn’t going to make it.

Distantly he thought he could hear howling and someone gasping for air. His wrist holding the stiletto was unceremoniously broken and he didn’t have enough air to scream even if he wanted to.

For a second he thought about the headlines on the first page of the Times. This would make first page, that he was certain. The Patrician murdered in his own office by the Commander himself? Oh, my!

Then everything went black.

* * *

Coincidences, Vetinari firmly believed, were merely the excuse Life and Destiny gave when they could not be brought to come up with something that actually made some logical sense.

To say that neither particularly liked him was frankly irrelevant and _completely_ coincidental.

~~So it was only right that the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork was finally brought down by coincidences.~~

Except that Ankh-Morpork’s very own definition of what was right did most certainly not agree that what happened was right. This was very important.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The Rats Chamber was buzzing, quiet conversations interwoven by hastily muted exclamations and gasps. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something, their eyes flickering to the vacant chair at the head of the table every so often. A clerk was standing next to it in attention, his dark clothes betraying him for one of the semi-mythical group of half-assassins that the word ‘clerk’ described as adequately as ‘green’ would a venomous snake. It was, in effect, true, but that was no comfort to one when the rest of the description swiftly brought about their end.

Then the Head Clerk entered and the murmuring paused for a short moment. To those that didn’t deem the staff completely underneath them and absolutely far too low to notice, Drumknott might’ve seemed even more focused than normal. He was clutching several large tomes in his hands, a lot of them looking like something Mr Slant would have waved around to make someone’s life very miserable indeed.

It was Lord Downey who broke the uneasy silence. “How is he doing?”

There was no need to elaborate.

“Recovering, but still unconscious. He is supposed to wake sometime next day,” Drumknott reported.

“What a tragedy,” Lord Selachii murmured in the specific aristocratic murmur, designed to be heard by just about everyone. “I _sincerely_ hope he makes it.”

“There is no question about that,” assured him Drumknott, “it is only a matter of time before he can return and take up his duties again.”

Lord Selachii looked for just a moment quite let down before a bright, oh so sincere looking smile made its way onto his lips. “That is most splendid, wonderful news.”

“Captain Carrot, I trust the Watch is investigating?”

The current head of the Watch briskly nodded: “Yes, we are looking into the matter.”

A snort from the audience. “Because there is no conflict of interest there, is it.”

That was duly ignored. Then there was some more awkward silence that usually arises when many people all want to say the same thing but not actually _be_ the ones saying it.

“But in the meantime the city does require a replacement,” finally ventured Lord Venturi. “I will be the first to admit that the last time—”

Drumknott swiftly interrupted him: “No need to worry, sir. There is a backup plan for such occasions.”

“A backup plan,” Lord Venturii slowly repeated, carefully enunciating each word. His esteemed peers wore expressions of disbelief, pure rage that was quickly masked the seething kind and puzzlement.

Lipwig was staring resolutely at Drumknott, sitting up rather straight and looking all pale.

“A contingency, if you will,” volunteered Drumknott. “So that the heavy burden of decision making does not need to be thrust upon a random unsuspecting individual that might not have the correct aptitude for it.”*

*This was almost certainly an insult to every stuck-up aristocrat in the room but with Drumknott it was just very hard to tell. Working with Vetinari for several decades does that to you.

Lipwig’s face had gone from pale to sheet white, attempting and succeeding at matching Otto von Chriek’s.

And Drumknott was still not finished. “Therefore, in accordance with this legislation you all had quite heartily supported several months ago and in agreeance with certain Guild masters, a replacement Patrician shall be appointed. A locum Patrician, if you will.”

At that point, Lipwig fainted. His head thumped onto the table in front of him with no consideration for anyone. Nobody moved. Drumknott wasn’t finished. “The person will be appointed in two days, provided the Patrician does not wake before. In case he is not deemed able to return to his position in the next three weeks, a substitute will be chosen. In the meantime, any decisions that cannot be made by a council of relevant Guilds or the guidelines the Patrician has laid out, will be postponed until such time that they can be addressed.”

Thunderous silence was his applause and he thanked it with a gracious bow. But there were still questions.

“What about a true emergency, something that cannot be simply swept aside?” demanded Ms Vireja of the Cook’s guild.

“What could possibly be so urgent and important?”

“A war!” somebody shouted from the mass of people, clearly banking on that fact to avoid recognition.

He didn’t stand a chance with Drumknott.

“Do you perhaps plan to start a war tomorrow, Mr Begaoul?”

There were some chuckles, but mostly everyone was still staring dumbly at the clerk.

“Mr de Worde, a word, if you will,” Drumknott then said. His voice was soft, completely unlike the Patrician’s and yet it carried the same weight right now. Whether it was from fear of what Vetinari would do when* he returned or Drumknott’s penetrative stare, nobody knew. They all obeyed the unspoken message that the official part of the meeting was over.

*And it was definitely a _When_ , they had all learned that much. You didn’t think in _Ifs_ when it came to the Patrician, not if you wanted to keep doing said activities for any lengthier period of time.

After Drumknott and de Worde left the chamber and the remaining clerks started shuffling paper around but before the majority of others decided to empty ouy, somebody loudly said: “The dog finally bit his master, huh.”

The words reverberated through the chamber. It was the sentiment of many, spoken by one brave soul.*

*Or one very brave but soulless body, which was a lot more probable, since the person was indeed here and had deemed something like that appropriate to utter.

* * *

The cells of Pseudopolis Yard were fuller than usual and unexpectedly well furnished, or at least one of them was. It contained a relatively well padded cot and a tray of food of much better quality that was usually seen in the watchouse.

That this was the cell that contained one Commander Vimes was not coincidental. His left leg was wrapped up and resting on the cot. His head was also wrapped, a cut on his forehead bandaged. His hands, all red and scuffed and in dire need of bandages were lying in his lap as he stared forward, unseeing.

Angua and Colon stood at the other side of the bars.

“It’s just not right,” murmured Colon, “he shouldn’t be in there. It’s not _right.”_

“He would’ve done the exact same thing if it was one of us,” said Angua. “Although I don’t think they would be in one piece.”

“But this is Mister Vimes!” protested Colon.

_“I know._ It doesn’t change anything. You were there, you heard Carrot.”

“Yes, but—”

Colon’s next protest was swiftly cut off by Cheery bursting into the hall, stumbling over the last few stairs and almost face-planting onto the moist floor.

“I knew it!” she loudly announced, waving her arms. “I knew it!”

Angua perked up at that. “Blood testing?”

“Yes! You were right, Captain. Unknown substance and a _lot_ of it. He was drugged, definitely.”

As the whole group hurried off in a flurry of activity and excitement, a drunk in one of the neighbouring cells suddenly sobered up. A dwarf, his beard a mess and his helmet askew, straightened up and stopped mumbling about gold. Nobody paid him any attention as he approached the cell bars and looked into the dark shadows that the cells were saturated with.

“Catatonic,” the shadows said in a distinctly female voice with an Überwaldian accent one came to associate with those of the more blood-sucking inclined members of the undead.

“He iss still in shock, I had not foreseen zat.”

“They say he was poisoned,” said the dwarf.

“Very probable, I have to agree. Are you staying here?”

“Yes, at least for now. Please inform the Štab of my course of action.”

“Very vell,” said the darkness. “Do you need anyzhing else?”

The dwarf shook his head and the darkness was silent once more. He slunk back onto the floor covered in Vetinari knew what* awful shit and let his head hang limply once again, offering him an unrestrained view of Commander Vimes.

Then he started drunkenly singing again.

*Citizens of Ankh-Morpork were convinced that gods knew far less than the Patrician. In a way they were even correct.

* * *

Besides an Igor and a freshly imported doctor from Ecalpon nobody from outside the Palace had the faintest idea of where exactly the Patrician was, which was the whole point.

Drumknott was working on an official statement that was going to go with the next edition of Times when Vetinari awoke. It wasn’t a gradual awakening — his breath stuttered for a moment in a way that every casual observer would’ve contributed to his damaged throat  and then evened out again. But Drumknott had known him for long enough. He pulled the bell to alert the doctor and turned to the bed.

Then he stood up and poured a glass of water with small ice droplets, making sure that his actions were apparent enough.

“Here, my lord,” he quietly said as Lord Vetinari opened his eyes and looked at him for the first time in two nerve-wrecking days.

“Drumknott,” Vetinari rasped. It was painful only listening to him, Drumknott thought while he helped him drink the water. Vetinari’s throat reminded him of the fortunates* that through some angelic intervention managed to survive being hanged.

*or the very unfortunate, depending on how one looked at things.

“Drumknott,” Vetinari rasped again.

The clerk hurried to calm him. “All’s well, my lord. Your preparations proved most useful.”

But Vetinari shook his head and, with a slow movement, gently caught one of Drumknott’s hands in his.

“You’re… shaking,” he managed to get out.

Drumknott froze. What? No, he wasn’t. He was perfectly composed, ready to serve his master in this time of great need.

With horror he noticed his shaking hands.

“I am sorry, my lord,” he said, trying to compose himself. “I don’t— I am really sorry, it won’t happen again.”

He hid his hands behind his back and tried his best to still them.

“No problem,” Vetinari whispered. “Are you… alright?”

Vetinari, whose face looked horrendous with all the bruising that was now even more pronounced than right after the incident, where he had literally been lying in a pool of blood in his own office, was asking _him_ if he was alright.

Drumknott didn’t find that funny at all.

“Of course, sir,” he said. “We have done this before, haven’t we.”

But Vetinari was still watching him with… Well, truth be told, Drumknott had no idea what exactly was on Vetinari’s mind. His expressions were a mockery of his usual sharp and cold lines and the only thing they could be grateful about was the fact that no teeth had been knocked out.

This distressed him awfully.

And he knew Vetinari didn’t want him lying, but it wasn’t like he knew the truth himself!

He did suspect it, though.

“Do you remember what happened, sir?” he asked politely.

Vetinari was quiet for a moment and then slowly shook his head.

“Only… flashes.”

Drumknott almost gulped, but that would be most unprofessional and a report had to be done.

“I had returned much later from the meeting that I intended to, as there were apparently other matters that demanded my attention. As I approached your office, however, I heard Mr Fusspot’s incessant howling, which made me hurry and call for help. As I entered your office, I encountered the most… distressing image.”

He most definitely didn’t shudder at the memories. Blood and more blood, and that awful smell—

“Commander Vimes was strangling you as he held you against a wall with one hand. He was hitting you with the other and screaming something incomprehensible at you. When I entered, Mr Fusspot, who was up until that moment loudly barking, bit the Commander’s leg, but the Commander didn’t seem to notice. I picked up the for that intended carefully concealed but quickly removable long iron bar and ordered the Commander to let go, but he didn’t appear to have heard me.”

There he stopped for a moment. He needed a second to compose himself, which was most embarrassing but had to be done.

“At this point I have to admit that I was convinced your lordship was not… among the living any longer, as you were neither struggling nor apparently breathing. That is why I might have put more than merely the necessary amount of force into my swing. Commander dropped and let you go, and the alerted clerks managed to revive you.”

He ended his recollection and tried to look anywhere but at the bed and its occupant.

“Where’s… Vimes?”

Because _of course_ that was the first question.

“In the cells of Pseudopolis Yard. He wasn’t badly hurt.” _Sadly,_ added a darker part of Drumknott’s mind. He didn’t pay it much attention.

“The Watch are already investigating,” he said. “They believe he was drugged.”

Vetinari nodded and Drumknott wanted to scream. It wasn’t that he hated Vimes. In some strange ways he even respected the man, but not right now.

To be completely honest, the only reason the man was still alive even after almost killing the Patrician himself was because of Vetinari’s specific instructions.

_In case of my premature death, make the survival of one Commander Vimes your priority._

But in that moment, in that singular instance just after he had entered the office, Drumknott admitted to himself, he was ready to break that order. For a second, nothing mattered. Vetinari was dead and he was lost.

“Are … you … alright?”

That question again.

“Of course, sir,” he said like he wasn’t clenching his fists hard enough for his nails to dig into his skin. “You should rest, sir. There is nothing urgent that demands your attention and you will be notified of any significant events happening in the meantime.”

* * *

“I want to see him,” said Vimes. He was still in his cell but the doors were now open and what seemed like half the Watch was in the corridor. Angua, Cheery and Nobby were standing in the cell and blocking most of the view, but that didn’t deter many. Angua’s low growl, on the other hand, emptied the hall quicker than the sight of Nobby stripping.

“I’m afraid that nobody knows where he is,” said Angua. She was pretty sure she was ready for the explosion that was sure to follow this.

There was none. She exchanged a worried look with Cheery, but the Commander didn’t pay them any attention.

“Of course,” he said in a level tone of voice that betrayed nothing yet spoke volumes to those more experienced, “of course. They had to hide him. Is Drumknott leading the offense? No, don’t tell me, of course he is.”

‘The offense?’ Cheery mouthed to Angua, who shrugged.

“What kind?” Vimes suddenly asked, looking at Cheery.

She tilted her head: “I’m sorry, sir?”

“You said I was drugged. What kind of drugs?”

“I’m not completely sure, but they were quite potent. Still present in your bloodstream in large doses, sir.”

“Little Big Potato Dump,” Vimes then said. Angua was contemplating running for Igor.

“Are you sure you feel alright, sir?” Cheery gently asked him. “Is your head—”

“The place where I bought the coffee, sergeant,” Vimes slowly said. “Little Big Potato Dump. Don’t ask me what’s with the weird name, it was on the way. And since that’s one of the last things I remember, I think it’s pretty damn important.”

“Sergeant, take a couple of men and investigate,” ordered Angua without turning. She was staring insistently at Vimes.

Cheery saluted and hurried off. Angua continued to stare.

“At ease, Captain,” Vimes murmured.

“You do remember something,” she said.

“I don’t,” he said.

He was lying. She didn’t push him. “We’ll find them.”

“Yeah,” he snorted.

“You know Carrot is very good at his job. You can trust us.”

“That’s not — what if there’s nothing _to_ find?” he asked and Angua finally understood what it was all about.

“Nobody here believes that, sir. You might keep saying that you want to strangle him, but everyone knows you don’t actually mean it. You’re a good person, sir,” she said with a lot more conviction than he would have.

“But maybe—”

“No maybe,” she interrupted him. “Please, sir, we’ll solve this.”

As she left the cell, Vimes called after her. “You forgot to lock the doors, Captain.”

In a completely deadpan voice she replied: “Did I? Oh dear, I might forget my own collar the next time. Oh well, since I seem to have also lost the keys, I just have to trust the incredibly dangerous criminal in the said cell not to escape. And is that I hear my name being called? I must rush and pay no attention to whether I leave the large doors unbarred or not, oh dear.”

* * *

A person dressed in the Assassin’s black was climbing through the window of the study when Drumknott entered. He refrained from sighing and lit a small candle.

“Yes?”

The figure gracefully jumped onto the floor. “They are responding as anticipated,” it said in a hushed voice. “Even the distribution of personnel is exactly as foretold.”

“Good,” said Drumknott and most definitely not smiled smugly. It wouldn’t fit into the image he was trying to project. “Continue observing them, especially both Captains. Find Klaus and tell him he is to guard Commander Vimes at all times.” There might’ve been a smidge of petulance in the last sentence, but there few that could tell and even fewer that would actually say so.

“Chloe sends her findings,” the Assassin continued and put a thin sheet of paper on the desk.

“She is to continue with her investigation,” Drumknott said, glancing at the paper.

“Very good,” said the intruder and gave a very clear show of not saluting before he disappeared.

After the clerk had left* Drumknott took the paper and skimmed it. His eyes widened at a particular line and he quietly whispered to himself: “His lordship isn’t going to like this, oh no.”

*Through the window again. It has been speculated that either Assassins were allergic to walking through doors or they were conditioned to frown upon any such behaviour with such fervour that their own lives meant less to them than their perceived ‘coolness’. People liked to point to Travis Aprilweather as evidence of this. The mentioned Assassin was supposedly shot dead with an arrow because of hesitance to simply step through the main doors as a means of escape. Whether this is true or not is unknown, but judging by the behaviour of Assassins when the said story was brought up, there was at least _some_ truth there.

* * *

What exactly was Lord Vetinari’s disposition towards that particular piece of news was hard to tell. He hadn’t said anything, merely nodded along as Drumknott read out the reports.

“Well then,” he said after Drumknott had finished with the report of the _status quo_ of the city, “what would you do, Drumknott?”

He was speaking much easier now and only having to pause occasionally to cough, but his bruises still looked rather awful.

“Me, my lord?” asked Drumknott, barely masking his surprise. “I don’t know. What _would_ I do?”

“Think of it as an exercise, Drumknott. You behaviour in these circumstances has been exemplary. I wish to see how much further you can go.”

“Well,” Drumknott slowly said and paused. Through being his Lordship’s secretary he was privy to a lot more information than other clerks or even Guild leaders, but to say he was capable of connecting it in such ways as the Patrician would be laughable.

“Go on,” encouraged him Vetinari. “It does not matter whether your course of action is something that I would come up with myself, I only wish to see how you think.”

“Well,” Drumknott said again, “I would tip off the Watch with the regards to the poison. They are persistent enough to follow through and find the responsible persons. I would interview the clerks myself under the pretense of helping with the trial and isolate the perpetrators. I would wait until the Watch got the necessary names out of their prisoners and sent out personnel to their Guilds and homes just before they realized what was happening.”

“Good, good,” nodded Vetinari and reached for something close to him on the bed. “You are definitely thinking. Now, clacks this to Pseudopolis Yard with my usual signature, and send this one to Commander Vimes, mark it personal and without a signature,” he said and gave Drumknott two pieces of paper.

Drumknott quickly read them. And then most definitely did not ask if Lord Vetinari was sure, but his inquiring look was enough.

Vetinari nodded. “Of course. Oh, and when you throw McLanister into the cells, make sure to take _everything_ off of him, alright? Even the lockpicks in his hair.”

Drumknott didn’t even want to ask how Vetinari knew who it was going to be, especially since he thought he was the only person bringing in news from the outside. But Vetinari was Vetinari.

“What about the leaders, sir?”

“They do not yet know they have lost. They will wait,” Vetinari said and visibly winced when he leaned back. Drumknott jumped to assist him, careful of his ribs.

“I am sorry, Drumknott,” Vetinari said, “to degrade you into the role of a nursemaid. I know it was rather presumptuous of me to think that you would find such work satisfactory.”

“I really don’t mind, sir,” Drumknott said. He would have minded if his lordship actually took on somebody else to do this. “I am here to serve you, in any way you deem it necessary. I am here for your satisfaction.”

“Really? Drumknott, have you been reading those Quirmian romances again?”

For a moment Drumknott looked perplexed: “Sir?” He didn’t read any romantic novels, did he?

Then the realization struck.

“Sir!” he yelped. “I didn’t— I wouldn’t— I—” he stuttered, clutching the papers to his chest like shield. “If you would excuse me,” he finally managed and left the room at something that could almost be called a sprint.

Vetinari permitted himself a small smile.

* * *

Vimes was staring at a note in his hands. “Unsigned, huh?” he repeated. He turned it around, but the other side was blank. He read the one and only sentence again and murmured: “Of course I don’t, what the hell.”

Lance-constable that had brought him the message was looking rather worried. “Is everything alright, Commander?”

“Is everything ever alright? No, don’t answer that, we don’t have time to get philosophical. Where’s Carrot?”

“Here, sir!”

Vimes spun around and squinted at Carrot, who was saluting him with a big smile on his face.

“Well done, Captain,” he told Carrot. “How are we doing?”

“We have just received a word from the Patrician,” said Carrot.

“Vetinari? How is he?”

“Alive, apparently. Nobody knows anything else. Sorry, sir. They — the Palace — want to supervise the investigation into that establishment you’d named, sir.”

Vimes thought about that for a moment. “They didn’t say we were to stop, did they?”

“No, they only ordered us to wait for their expert.”

“Really,” Vimes slowly said. “That’s interesting. Did they say who it was going to be?”

“No, sir.”

“Hmm. Tell Cheery to be very careful and to hang back until their expert arrives, but when he does to _not_ let him out of her sight. And then… Tell me, Captain, do you believe in coincidences?”

“Sir?” Carrot looked confused.

Vimes waved the small piece of paper underneath his nose. “Coincidences, Captain. An improbable stroke of luck or misfortune for someone, huh?”

He looked at the message again and asked: “Who was the bright soul that gave the idea of using up five kilos of coffee at once?”

“I believe it was constable Reginald,” said Carrot. “They were trying to see how much coffee would it take to fire up trolls, sir.”

“‘They?’” asked Vimes, already dreading the answer.

“Constable Reginald, Sergeant Detritus and lance-constable Periwinkle. Sir, is everything alright?”

Vimes waved off his concerns. “Of course it is. Who of these people is on duty at the moment?”

“Both Sergeant Detritus and lance-constable Periwinkle, sir. They should be around here somewhere, they were just about to go on patrols.”

Vimes was staring somewhere over Carrot’s shoulder. “Get Angua to track down constable Reginald. I’m sure we have his home address written down _somewhere,_ so when he isn’t there, find him and bring him to me.”

* * *

“I know that I am questioning your judgement again, sir,” Drumknott said, “but to be completely honest, I do not think this is a wise idea.”

“If only I would’ve listened to you in the first place, huh, Drumknott? Then we wouldn’t be in this mess, would we,” Lord Vetinari said. He was painstakingly slowly pulling on his black robes with only one hand and Drumknott assisting when necessary and absolutely not blushing.

“I am not suggesting that, sir!” Drumknott protested.

“But you are thinking it, and you are right,” Vetinari said. “Besides, where would we be if nobody spoke up to tyrants anymore?”*

*A _proper_ tyranny, but Drumknott was sure not to mention that. Lord Vetinari found his title of ‘tyrant’ quite amusing for some reason.

“Sir, think about your safety!”

“Of course, Drumknott. The safety of my position, which is slipping with every hour I am not visibly presiding over that horde of incompetents. I am absolutely sure you have already arranged matters in such a way that the unfortunate incident will most certainly not be repeated.”

That wasn’t a question, it was a statement of fact.

“To be completely honest, sir—”

“Do be, please!”

“—I was certain of your safety the day of the incident as well. Your own assured guarantee of Commander Vimes’ character was what in the end resulted in the horrendous crime committed, sir.”

Drumknott stared straight ahead and hoping not to die a very violent death in the next couple of seconds, but Vetinari only tilted his head. “Drumknott, do you blame me for what happened?”

“What?” For a second, Drumknott actually forgot the protocol as he stared, incredulous, at Vetinari. “Absolutely not, sir! What I am _trying_ to say is that I find your safety of paramount importance and will put it above even your wishes, sir.”

This was almost akin to mutiny, he realized, but he stood behind what he said.

“Even the city?” Vetinari asked.

Drumknott hesitated for only a moment. “No, sir. Above everything _but_ the city.”

He was regarded with his lordship actually _beaming_ at him. It should’ve looked disturbing, with the bruises and cuts, but he found himself smiling back.

“Capital,” said Vetinari and stood up. Drumknott had to help him steady himself. “Shall we?”

* * *

The Rats chamber was buzzing for the second time in as many days. Since nobody had seen Lord Vetinari after the transgression upon his person, many a rumour about his death or awful disfigurement had been spread around, some by the citizens themselves but twice as many by the nobility that now pretended to be appalled by their mere suggestion.

Their voices of protest and concern for the Patrician’s safety were raised yet again once Commander Vimes in full armour and most definitely _not_ in shackles stepped into the room, followed by Captain Carrot.

Lady Selachii’s shrill voice reached over everyone: “This is— is this allowed? Surely violent criminals cannot be permitted to be in Lord Vetinari’s presence at this time!”

Commander Vimes made a show of looking around: “I don’t see any,” he said.

“But surely—” Lady Selachii protested.

“It has been proven beyond doubt that Commander Vimes did not act of his own accord,” said Captain Carrot. “The drugs are out of his system and the event will not be repeated. Additionally, with so many prominent citizens present, I am certain we would be able to subdue him if necessary.”

“Thank you, Carrot,” Vimes growled to him and they took their seats in relative peace.

Nobody was actually completely certain whether the Patrician was going to show or not, and Vimes dreaded finding out. His memories were—

Well, they were coming back, but coming back at completely random times in no apparent connection with one another. Those that he had already did not paint a pretty picture and he shuddered to think what else could be revealed.

He didn’t like the Patrician, oh no. He wouldn’t say he necessarily hated his guts, but Vetinari definitely infuriated him. Still, nobody deserved— okay, he could already think of a few that did, and yes, alright, _many_ did, but not Lord Vetinari — what had happened—

No, that was wrong. It hadn’t just ‘happened’, he had _done_ it with his own bare hands. He had, as far as he could remember and had been told by others, beaten a man almost to death. And not just any man but Lord Vetinari. Vetinari’s terrier finally biting his master, huh? So amusing. All of the nobs in this room saw this as not a crime but an opportunity to advance. Who really cared about Vetinari?

Nobody, Vimes realized. Absolutely nobody.

The room suddenly went completely silent and he raised his head, pulling his thoughts away from the unfortunate recollections.

Lord Vetinari was standing behind his chair and he looked terrible. One of his eyes was blackened, his lips were split in many places and his jaw bruised. The rest of the wounds was hidden by his usual clothing, and his presence was as imposing as ever. There were gloves on his hands as he held the cane with his right. His left hung limply by his side.

“I apologize for my unkempt appearance,” he said, “and am here to announce that no replacement shall be necessary, as I am perfectly capable of carrying on with my work.”

Lord Venturi was the first to raise his voice: “With all due respect, Havelock, the behaviour of your secretary during your absence was most reprehensible!”

The Patrician raised his eyebrow in his classical way and turned to Drumknott, who was hovering at his side.

“Is this true, Drumknott?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Drumknott said. “I was merely following your orders.”

“Thank you,” Vetinari said and turned back towards Lord Venturi. “Apparently you are wrong, sir.”

“You would believe a clerk above me?” thundered Venturi.

“Yes. Yes, I would. Drumknott acted according to my instructions and I support his every action.”

The underlying and very dangerous message was that if one now objected to Drumknott, one was also objecting to Lord Vetinari, which was generally not a good survival tactic.

“Of course, now that I am back in the office and with no need for an elected substitute, please do tell Mr Lipwig he doesn’t have to run away.”

One of his clerks actually left the room at that, but the what matters of state she truly had to attend was unknown.

“Now, concerning Commander Vimes,” Vetinari continued, not looking at the man, “the Duke of Ankh and our esteemed colleague. It is now clear that the unfortunate incident was not his own fault and he shall not be prosecuted for it.”

A myriad of voices immediately started protesting, and Vimes was back amidst his thoughts. He had to admire how Vetinari’s intricate language separated the so-called ‘incident’ from the violent and horrifying crime enacted upon him, and by admire he of course meant hate. Words had far too much power in the world of politics, if you asked Vimes, which for such a master of them as was Vetinari was heaven.

When Vimes toned back into the present, Vetinari was talking again.

“As the… unfortunate injured party,” Vetinari was saying in response to some truly moronic question judging by the tone of his voice, “I am more than aware of Commander’s capabilities. And yet I get to choose his fate. The reports of both the Watch and my trusted clerks clearly indicate that Commander Vimes did not act of his own free will. I am still convinced that I have not misjudged him and I believe that we should rather focus on those that organized the whole occurrence.”

A folded piece of paper was handed to Drumknott who quickly read it and impassively nodded to the clerk. The man disappeared and the paper was given to the Patrician.

Vetinari barely glanced at it.

Vimes had a funny feeling that something was about to go down. He nudged Carrot, who also seemed very attentive.

“Mr Boggis, Dr Mincer and Mr de Worde, if you would accompany me?”

It wasn’t a request, that much was clear.

“Go with them,” Vimes murmured to Carrot. “I have a feeling some men are about to have a very bad day turn even worse.”

* * *

Both Mr Boggis and Dr Mincer seemed quite distressed. Whether this was out of general fear of Lord Vetinari that most Morkoporians (at least breathing ones*) carried within themselves or from knowing that they had very recently committed a Crime and were about to be thrown to scorpions for it was irrelevant.

*This includes those of the undead persuasion that do not breathe but still count themselves as citizens of this fine** city.

**Very debatable.

Lord Vetinari slowly made his way across the office, his limp even more pronounced. Nobody was fooled. Frail was not a word one associated with Lord Vetinari, not even in the confines of their own minds, since that was a very public place to the Patrician.

“Gentlemen,” Lord Vetinari said as he took a seat behind his desk and nodded to them to do the same. Captain Carrot remained standing.

“What I am about to tell you is very soon going to be public knowledge, thanks to Mr de Worde. I did not want him to strain himself finding out the story, and I think this way it shall be more accurate. So please, hold nothing back!”

Mr Boggis and Dr Mincer looked at one another, then at the smiling Patrician and then at de Worde with his notebook, prepared to start taking notes.

They both spoke at once: “It was only money! I swear, sir, I have nothing against you!”

“Really?” Vetinari said and leaned forward, resting his chin on the back of right hand, “do tell me more.”

* * *

“How’s Cheery doing?” he asked first thing as he got back to the Yard.

“She’s already back, sir. We have the criminal in the cells. She says the expert from the Palace helped,” reported Angua.

Vimes nodded and made his way to his office. “Good, good, we’ll interrogate him—”

“Her.”

“—her in an hour. Where’s Reginald?”

“In the cells, sir,” Angua said. “We caught her just before she left the city. Quite in a hurry.”

“Good job, now we— Wait, _before_ she left the city?” Vimes interrupted himself, suspicion rising.

Angua nodded. “Yes, she said it was a family emergency and she had to visit her grandmother. She had a horse and all her money with her. Is everything alright?” she asked as Vimes had apparently frozen on the stairs.

“Where’s lance-constable Periwinkle?” he asked, his hands twitching.

“On patrol,” Angua said, confused. “I don’t know where exactly.”

“Shit,” he yelled and put his helmet back on, taking the steps two at a time as he hurried down again. “Tell all patrols that this is an emergency! Issue a general alert on her!”

“Him!”

“Him! If they see him, they are to arrest him immediately!”

Thankfully, she didn’t ask any questions as he had no idea how he could answer them. He was running as fast as he could and hoped that Carrot would be smart enough. How on Earth could he have missed something like this?

He thought back to the unsigned note. _Do you believe in coincidences, Sir Samuel?_

Of course he didn’t and Vetinari knew that! So why—

And he used to be a lot more careful, that was true. Just because it wasn’t lance-constable Periwinkle that suggested the idea, that did in no way mean it wasn’t him that came up with it.

_They_ had already failed once. _They_ had nothing to lose. He speeded up.

There was a patter of paws next to him and he looked down to see Angua effortlessly running next to him.

“Get to the palace!” he told her. “They are going to murder the Patrician!”

* * *

“Of course I would not _dare_ to call anything as innocuous as an attempted assassination of my person _treason,_ but I do believe the Assassins would not be pleased by your infringement of their franchise.”

Mr Boggis might’ve paled further, but he was already so white in the face it was hard to tell.

“But I will have a word on your behalf with Lord Downey,” Vetinari continued. “It would be such a shame to lose your talents. However, I do expect a tightening of guild laws regarding such matters.”

Mr Boggis nodded, clearly far too terrified to even think of doing anything else.

“And you, Dr Mincer, will take on Dr Tenebrarius as your second in command and then resign.”

Dr Mincer’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t do this!” he said, jumping up.

De Worde was frantically scribbling the happenings down.

“I, in fact, _can,”_ calmly stated Vetinari

“We will not tolerate something so outrageous!” yelled Dr Mincer, realized where he was, paled, and sat back down.

“You don’t have a choice,” flatly said Lord Vetinari. “Dr Tenebrarius is one of the best doctors from Ecalpon, as far as I know.”*

* _And this is very far indeed_ went by unspoken.

“But she’s not one of us!” insisted Dr Mincer.

“That’s true,” admitted Lord Vetinari. “She tries to _save_ lives. Drumknott, if you would be so kind?”

Drumknott nodded and left the room.

A moment later the door exploded.

* * *

Even later, William wasn’t entirely sure what had happened. Two people burst through the doors at the same time as the glass windows on the other side of the office shattered and a third attacker rolled in.

That one was intercepted by Carrot who pulled his sword and set to work. The other two were far more dangerous to William as they advanced towards them. They were probably after the Patrician, which was bad news for everyone in the room but especially William, who in his surprise chose to stand right in front of Vetinari.

Dr Mincer, who tried to duck under the chair, was hit with a flying knife and collapsed onto the floor. Mr Boggis vaulted over the Patrician’s desk and was seeking shelter in the cabinet. Lord Vetinari was standing up and somehow materializing knives out of thin air and William didn’t know what to do.

The men simply pushed him aside, but he kicked at them and got one of them in the knee. Which was a rather dumb move, as he realized a second later, when the man suddenly had a crossbow pointed at him.

Damn, thought William. And I probably won’t even make first-page news, with the Patrician here and everything.

There was a loud growl and the attacker was suddenly lying on the floor, a very large and familiar wolf on top of him.

William, who was because of some strange reason feeling rather weak, chose that moment to faint.

* * *

By the time Vimes arrived at the scene it was already all over. The attackers were all dead, one due to his throat being in two separate pieces and the other two because they weren’t immune to cyanide.

Dr Tenebrarius had already bandaged both Mr de Worde and Dr Mincer, judged Drumknott’s head lump as not concussed and made sure Vetinari hadn’t re-broken his ribs and was now staring down Carrot, who was retreating as fast as possible.

“You’re all alive,” Vimes panted. “That’s good. That’s very good. And I see not one of the suspects survived.”

“I think we’re past suspects,” snorted Angua as she went after Carrot to help foil his escape. “Sir. And besides, they were suicides. They knew that they either succeeded or died.”

“It will not change the trial process,” Vetinari said. “I have already spoken with the main instigators and we will not have a repetition anytime soon.”

Vimes most pointedly didn’t look at him when he replied: “With all due respect, _sir,_ I believe that this isn’t only your decision. As the Commander of the Watch I will—”

“Tyrant, remember?” said Vetinari. “I can do what I want. And what I want right now is for this to be forgotten. The remaining perpetrators will be tried with sufficient evidence to excuse the necessary punishment, and that’s it.”

“Sir,” stated Vimes, still staring at a completely different part of the office. “I cannot be an efficient copper if you won’t let me do my job.”

“I am very appreciative of all the good work you do, Com mander, but this is the one case where I am _asking_ you to stop. I could order you, but I am asking you.”

“Because that makes such a difference,” snorted Vimes and then realized that it _did._ Because in this one case, Vetinari was the victim and, for the first time in a long while, did not hold all the cards. Because Vimes was the one that attacked him, because Vetinari was now actually _asking_ him instead of simply stating something, because—

Vimes realized they were alone in the Oblong Office. Again.

Lord Vetinari was standing closer to the doors (or what was left of them, which wasn’t exactly much) than before, Vimes thought. Surely Vetinari didn’t think that Vimes would attack him again, did he? And it was he himself who’d said he trusted Vimes! So why was he acting so weird again?

Apparently his thoughts weren’t as private as he had thought or Vetinari was thinking the exactly same thing as he walked away from the doors and towards his desk.

“Sir Samuel,” he began just as Drumknott rushed in, armed with a very large crossbow, his head bandaged in soft green bandages.

“Sir!” he yelled, skiddling to a stop next to Vetinari. His hands were shaking as he leveled the crossbow somewhere in the general coordinates of Vimes. They were off by a few degrees.

Vetinari looked nonplussed at this and gently pushed the point of the crossbow to face the floor. “Is everything alright, Drumknott?”

“Cannot leave you alone here, sir,” said the clerk, his eyes never leaving Vimes.

Seeing them standing together, Vetinari covered in bruises and Drumknott with his large crossbow, still shaking, a strange emotion curled up in Vimes’ stomach and refused to leave. Was it shame? He thought he was past guilt, but…

It was the realization which the entirety of the Watch had tried to keep away from him, the realization that it was him and his hands that severely physically hurt someone that did not deserve it and mentally scar more than one person.

He turned on his heel and left.


End file.
